Two Simple Words
by apinknightmare
Summary: Oliver's never really been one for apologies, although in the past year and a half he's become intimately familiar with the art of righting wrongs. Sometimes it's easier, he thinks, to subdue an armed assailant intent on putting a bullet through his chest than it is to utter those two simple words—I'm sorry. ***Companion fic to 2x10 - Blast Radius***


Oliver's never really been one for apologies, although in the past year and a half he's become intimately familiar with the art of righting wrongs. Sometimes it's easier, he thinks, to subdue an armed assailant intent on putting a bullet through his chest than it is to utter those two simple words—I'm sorry. When he was on the island, he'd been too busy trying to survive to worry about anyone's hurt feelings, and before that, well...he'd always been able to smooth a rift with sweet words and a charming smile. But that won't work on Felicity; somehow she's always been able to see right through him.

If Oliver's being honest, he hadn't thought he had anything to apologize for until Diggle gave him that look. Digg can level a man with his eyes, and all too often he acts as the conscience that Oliver isn't entirely sure he possesses any longer. Oliver doesn't like Digg's implication that he lashed out at Felicity because of jealousy over her friendship or relationship or whatever-ship with Barry Allen. But if Oliver lets himself think on it for long enough, he begins to wonder if Diggle's closer to the truth than he's comfortable admitting.

Jealousy has always been a foreign notion to Oliver. Being born into wealth and privilege, he's always been on the receiving end of people's envy; he himself has never been particularly envious of anyone. But seeing Felicity with Barry stirred something inside of him that he still can't quite name. It's not jealousy so much as...longing, maybe? There was an easiness between Felicity and Barry that Oliver hasn't experienced with anyone since his return from Lian Yu. He misses that kind of innocence, the getting-to-know-you phase at the beginning of a relationship that's full of the rush of like and lust and want and need. He knows he'll never have that again. He's too weighed down by the burden of vows and secrets, too practiced in the art of hiding his scars, both the ones that are visible and the ones that aren't.

It's true that in the weeks following Barry's accident, Oliver became more aware of Felicity. Not of her presence, which he's beginning to understand that he's taken for granted, but of her absence. Being greeted by an empty desk when he walked into his office at Queen Consolidated every morning made him realize how much he missed just seeing her there every day. Sometimes, in the foundry, he'd be puzzling over a particularly difficult criminal to locate, and he'd turn to ask her for her help, only to see an empty chair. An empty chair, an empty desk. That's kind of what his life is like when she's not around. A little bit empty.

But she's here now, and Oliver doesn't like the heaviness that's settled in the air around them. There's tension in every other aspect of his life; he doesn't want it with her. Felicity is nothing but light, a precious thing in a world that's as dark as Oliver's, and he wants that light back.

Digg understands that Oliver needs this time alone with Felicity to make things right again, and he offers Oliver a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he makes his way out of the foundry for the evening.

Oliver looks over at Felicity as Diggle's footsteps fade away, his heart aching a little at the sight of her in her chair, half-heartedly watching the data pop up on her monitors. Her spunk is gone—the light inside of her dimmed—and it's his fault. Oliver is accustomed to the weight of guilt, but knowing that he's hurt her, the burden is especially heavy. It makes it difficult for Oliver to swallow, it presses against his chest, it makes already restless nights even more restless.

It seems so long ago that Oliver sat across from her in the IT Department at Queen Consolidated and told her how remarkable she was. It's true, and he should tell her more often. In the time that he's gotten to know her since then, he has realized that there's so much more to her than that. She's funny and engaging, and so brilliant that it takes his breath away. And she knows him. Better, he thinks, than anyone else in his life. Sometimes when she looks at him in that unguarded way of hers, he feels an ache in his chest, a tightness that he's not sure will ever loosen, and he worries that their lives are becoming entwined in a way that's impossible to unravel. He first suspected it the night of his mother's verdict, when he'd answered his cell expecting to hear Felicity's voice and heard the Count's instead. It had taken an eternity to get to her, his heart in his throat as he raced to his office, praying that she'd still be in one piece when he arrived.

When he saw the pointed syringe full of Vertigo aimed at Felicity's neck, he couldn't think over the rage that filled his veins, the anger that coursed through him at the mere thought of someone trying to take her from him. He unloaded three arrows into the Count's chest without a second thought. And then _she_ apologized to _him_.

Felicity's goodness makes Oliver want to be a better man, but no matter how hard he tries, he knows he'll never be worthy of her. As he stacks his arrows in his quiver, he thinks back to that day in his office, shortly after they'd returned home from Russia. He remembers the hurt in Felicity's eyes when she'd asked him why. Why her? Why Isabel? Even though Oliver knows Felicity likes him, would want to be with him that way, she wasn't disappointed that he didn't choose her. She was disappointed that he didn't choose better. Because she has a higher opinion of Oliver than he has of himself.

The real crime of it is that Felicity thinks Oliver could never see her the way that she sees him, that he could never want to be with her the way that she wants to be with him. She thinks that he could never love her.

He thinks maybe he does, although he's not really sure what kind of love it is. Maybe it's friendly, maybe it's not, maybe it changes every time he looks at her. Maybe it's innocent, and maybe it could be more. Sometimes he thinks he might be ready for it, like when she loses herself in a rant or when she makes herself laugh and he feels this warm calmness spreading over him. But he can't ever examine it, can't ever put a name on it. He can't ever really let himself _feel_ it, whatever it is, because the darkness in him would overshadow her light. He would extinguish her. As much as Oliver refuses to allow her to be harmed, he also refuses to be the one to harm her. Smothering her light would be a crime, one of the few that Oliver is unwilling to commit.

Now she's slumped in her chair, anger radiating from her, and he's responsible for that. He owes her an apology, and he's ashamed that Diggle even had to point that out to him. Still, however deserved, it doesn't come easily. Oliver has to prepare himself for it, somehow find a way to deliver the sentiment. He rolls his shoulders, steeling himself for the conversation they're about to have. He swallows.

"I'm sorry," he says, practically pushing the words from his chest. They're gruff, and he just kind of puts them out there, like a practice shot.

"Are you apologizing to me, or were you talking to your quiver?" Her voice is stilted and harsh, and he could smile because she's just not going to make this easy for him.

Oliver takes a deep breath and turns toward her, then pushes himself up out of his chair. "I didn't snap at my quiver."

"You kind of more than snapped." The hurt in her voice draws him to her, makes him take the few steps to bridge the distance between them.

"I know," he replies. "And I'm sorry."

He meets her gaze, and he can't look away from her, not now. She shuts her eyes, and lets out a deep breath.

"I understand that this Mirakuru thing has you freaked out. And I have been in Central City. A lot-"

He shifts his weight. He doesn't like her making excuses for him, and he doesn't want her taking on any of the blame for their argument. He needs to tell her, once and for all, what she means to the team. What she means to _him_. He needs to admit his weakness to her, and to tell her that she makes him stronger.

"Felicity, it's not that. When you are there, well, it just made me realize how much I need you here. In the be- in the beginning I was just gonna...gonna do all of this by myself. And now with you and Diggle... I rely on you."

Felicity considers his words for a moment. When her expression softens, he feels like he can breathe freely for the first time in awhile. Then she stands, taking a few steps towards him…

"Well, does that mean I have a shot…"

He sucks in a deep breath to quell the panic, wondering where this conversation is going, if he's going to have to think of a way to let her down...

"...at employee of the month?"

Felicity, always surprising him.

"No," he says resolutely. It kills him that she doesn't see her value.

He wants her to be sure, forever, of where she stands with him. He still feels badly over how he handled moving her from IT to become his assistant, and even though she works for him in their public life, he never, ever wants her to feel like she's beneath anyone, most of all him. Because he needs her to complete this mission, and sometimes... sometimes he thinks he needs her more than that. "Because you're not my employee. You're my partner."

She nods, smiling. He's missed that smile. He's missed her bright lipstick, the twinkling in her eyes. For a moment he's compelled to reach out to her, to cup her cheek. To touch her just because he wants to, not out of a desire to comfort her. He remembers how soft her skin feels beneath his calloused hands, and he imagines—just for a second—what it would feel like for her to lean into his hand and close her eyes, to get lost in him. Because she would, he knows it. He's thought about that particular scenario a hundred times over the past few days. But he doesn't reach out for her. He can't.

Seeing the brightness in her eyes again makes Oliver realize how much he needs—how much he wants—to keep seeing it. If Felicity is going to be with someone, it should be someone who can make her smile, make her laugh. Someone like Barry. Oliver wants to remind her of that.

"Barry's gonna wake up. And when he does, you will be there."

Felicity tilts her head back in exasperation. "I finally have a guy who's interested in me, and he's struck by lightning. Ends up in a coma. Typical."

Oliver laughs. Not to make fun of her, but because he just can't believe it. Doesn't she know how amazing she is? "Well, maybe he's dreaming about you."

"You know, actually there's conflicting cases about whether coma patients can in fact dream normally, or if they're more like hallucinating."

Typical Felicity, reaching for the science rather than the sentiment. He wants so badly for her to know that she's worth dreaming about. The Oliver he was before the island would've told her he dreamed of her, just to flatter her. Even though it's true now—he does occasionally dream of her—he can't ever let her know that. He can't give her that hope because that hope is the beginning of that light dying. He won't let that happen.

He rests his hand on her shoulder, willing her to see what he sees, and when her eyes meet his, he thinks maybe she does.

"Thank you," she says.

He offers her a tight smile—the only thing he can really offer her—and then he turns away from her. Towards his quiver and arrows. Towards his duty.

A minute later he looks over at her. She's sitting straighter, a small smile playing at her lips.

Oliver feels an empty ache in his chest. But it's worth it, he thinks. That smile is worth it.


End file.
